You have to give the Instituto Português de Cinema credit for their patience. They produced Manoel de
Oliveira’s highly personal docu-memoir in 1982, but it was only just released
this year. It was intended as a final cinematic testament to be screened after
the then seventy-three year-old filmmaker’s death. However, Oliveira would have
the greatest second wind in movie-making history. Nearly thirty-three years,
twenty-four narrative features, and numerous shorts, documentaries, and
anthology film contributions later, Oliveira finally passed away. Reportedly,
he had several films in active development. It is a shame we will not get the
chance to see what they could have been, but at least Oliveira left us his
final film, circa 1981-1982. Automatically significant due to the circumstances
surrounding it, Oliveira’s Memories and
Confessions screened last night as part of MoMA’s annual Contenders series.
Arguably, Oliveira’s best work was ahead of
him in 1981 (when principle photography was shot)—way, way ahead—but the Portuguese
auteur was clearly feeling a bit weary at the time. The authoritarian Salazar
government had fallen, but Oliveira was about to lose his grand family home due
to some strange financial flimflamerry. The Oliveira factory had already been
occupied and gutted by its workers, leaving them mired in tax debt.
Perhaps appropriately, we first enter the
Oliveira house in the company of spectral intruders, whose voiceover narration
is often impressionistic and philosophical. Before long, we stumble across
Oliveira typing out yet another script. Up until M&C, all his films had been written in that cozy study. It is a
home with history. Designed by Portuguese modernist Jose Porto, it had been the
scene of weddings, deaths, extended illnesses, and child rearing. It was also
there that Salazar’s enforcers arrested the politically-averse Oliveira.
Seemingly confused by the episode himself,
Oliveira revisits the scenes of his arrest and ten-day detention. He also takes
us on a tour of the hollowed-out Oliveira factory and the then-working but
soon-to-be-defunct Tobis Portuegesa, the nation’s last working film studio.
It is just rather strange to consider how much
Oliveira would accomplish while his final cinematic statement was resting
snugly in the vault. The film is like the ghost of a ghost, capturing Oliveira
at a crossroads that now looks more like a mid-life stock-taking than a career
summation. It is a thoughtful, meditative film, but not surprisingly, the more
you know of Oliveira, the richer the viewing experience will be.
